Update

• Sydney: 3 years and 10 months, swimming, able to name most letters of the alphabet, incessantly curious about the origin and nature of all things, losing her baby fat, finally potty-trained, sleeping in Mom and Dad's bed, jealous of her brother, totally in love with her brother, incessantly curious about the ramifications of picking up her brother by the head/arms/waist/legs, mourning the loss of Hermit Crab #1 and Hermit Crab #2, ready for a dog, talking about kindergarten.
• Evan: 11 1/2 months, walking, eating finger foods, rejecting baby foods, demonstrating object permanence, slightly afraid of his sister, loving the big bathtub, protesting violently during diaper changes, incessantly curious about the contents of everyone's dinner plate, demonstrating some serious musical talent, nursing at night, getting ready for Ms. Gwen.
• Chrissie: 33 years and 8 months, walking, swimming, regularly forgetting her letters and numbers, running less frequently in the summer heat, looking forward to Maine at the end of the month, proud of herself for flying solo with 2 little ones, slightly obsessed with smoothies and daquiris, filled with sadness for a friend, no longer pumping at work, needs a haircut, would love a massage, could never be a SAHM, thinking about kindergarten, already missing Ms. Gladys, cannot wait for Ms. Gwen.

Are You There, Benevolent-Creator-Type-Being-Who-May-or-May-Not-Exist? It's me, Chrissie.

So Sydney's been really into ontologies lately--a welcome break from endless rounds of Baby and Mommy or Grocery Store or Road Trip With Unspecified Destination But Plenty of Snacks, which are pretty much the recreational mainstays around here. I'm not sure where this interest in the nature and origin of all things (and I do mean all things) came from,* but lately our conversations have grown increasingly complicated. For example:

Sydney: "Mommy, where do babies come from?"

Mommy (stalling): "What kind of babies?"

S: "Baby lizards."

M: "Baby lizards come from Mommy and Daddy lizards."

S: "But how?"

M: "Well..."

S: "..."

M: "The Daddy lizard gives the Mommy lizard something, and that makes the baby."

S: "...."

M: "...."

S: "But how are baby babies made?"

M (stalling): "What do you mean?"

S: "Like, babies like Evan."

M: "Well, Daddies have a, uh, special thing, and they give to the Mommy, and she has a special thing, and they put the special things together and that makes a baby."

S: "..."

M: "Does that make sense?"

S: "Yes. Mommy?"

M (struggling to find a child-friendly equivalent to semen): "Yes?"

S: "But how is the the world made? How is everything made?"

************

So obviously this is some sort of payback. Right?

************

First tactic: Total Transparency.

M: "Well, there was this thing called the Big Bang-"

S: "--like a big explosion??"

M: "Well, sort of..."

S: "Things blew up? That's scary."

M: "Well, they didn't really blow up, they sort of imploded.."

S: "What's imploded?"

M:

***********

Second tactic: Mystery

M: "Well, no one really knows how those things were made."

S: "...."

M: "..."

S: "But Mommy. Tell me."

M: "I don't know, baby. No one knows."

S: "I don't like you. You're an idiot."

***********

Times like these, I wish we were believers. It would make it easier--not just for me, but for our little girl, who just wants to understand how the world works. I wish I could just tell her, with great conviction, that God made the world, that God is waiting in Heaven; I wish I could provide that consolation and that promise. But I can't--and not because I do not believe, but mostly because I am unsure, and believe like Richard Dawkins that:

Humans have a great hunger for explanation. It may be one of the main reasons why humanity so universally has religion, since religions do aspire to provide explanations. We come to our individual consciousness in a mysterious universe and long to understand it. Most religions offer a cosmology and a biology, a theory of life, a theory of origins, and reasons for existence. In doing so, they demonstrate that religion is, in a sense, science; it's just bad science. Don't fall for the argument that religion and science operate on separate dimensions and are concerned with quite separate sorts of questions. Religions have historically always attempted to answer the questions that properly belong to science. Thus religions should not be allowed now to retreat away from the ground upon which they have traditionally attempted to fight. They do offer both a cosmology and a biology; however, in both cases it is false.


But you try explaining all that to a 3-year-old.



* Which is in itself an ontology. Ha ha.

James Carville Will Kill You

I recently purchased a new t-shirt. This purchase was exceptional for several reasons:

1) The shirt is bright blue, and I never wear brightly colored clothing.

2) I bought the shirt after spotting it at Jazz Fest, covering the expansive gut of a scraggly-bearded hippy-looking college kid. It probably goes without saying that I (rarely) attempt to emulate the clothing patterns of scraggly-bearded hippy-looking co-eds.

3) The shirt is funny, so so incredibly funny, but also a wee bit controversial. Check it out and you'll see what I mean.

***********************************************************************************

So anyway. The other day I changed out of said t-shirt, into my running clothes, and hit the streets for a short jog. I was at the corner of Broadway and St. Charles, thinking about the shirt and wondering if it would be appropriate to wear to a (child's) birthday party that afternoon, when a car turning right at the red light came dangerously close to crushing me. The driver slammed on the brakes and glared at me and I glared back at this person who nearly ran me down in his slick black mid-size sedan and then I realized that this person was...have you guessed it yet? James Carville.

I guess he lives here now, which is cool, but I suppose I will have to be extra-vigilant on my runs from now on.

Runners, take heed: Look both ways, because James Carville will kill you.

Watch Your Mouth

• Overheard upon entering house on a rainy day:

Sydney, muttering to self: "It's fucking wet out there."

• Overheard while watching daughter climb into carseat, littered with crumbs and sand:

Sydney, muttering to self: "Look at all this shit."

• Overheard in the early morning hours, from my prone position in our obscenely comfortable king-size bed, sheets pulled up to my ears, groaning at the daybreak peeking through the blinds:

Sydney, talking to Evan: "It's okay, Mommy's coming. Mommy's getting up. Mommy will be here in a minute. It's okay, don't cry. Don't cry, Evan. Why are you crying? Okay, I'm leaving. I can't deal with you right now."

Jedi Meditation

The Force is strong at 5 Trianon Plaza.

Super Cute

What a Good Boy

I've been paying close attention to song lyrics lately. Not sure what that's about, but for whatever reason I've found myself in a state of introspection more frequently displayed by creatures of the adolescent species (commonly known as "teenagers"). One might say I've been brooding. It's not terribly adult and not always particularly productive, but hey--at least I'm not losing myself in back-to-back episodes of The Real Housewives of New York City.*

Anyway, the other day I got stuck on the lyrics of a Bare Naked Ladies song I've always loved:

When I was born, they looked at me and said

What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy

When you were born, they looked at you and said

What a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl.

We've got these chains that hang around our necks

People want to strangle us with them

Before we take our first breath

Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same

When temptation comes, we just look away.

I've always loved this song, especially when I first discovered it as a teenager. It spoke to that part of me that felt a certain pressure to be perfect, to be beautiful, to not be too funny because that wasn't feminine, to be smart but not too competitive, to be good. I wasn't like most girls; I didn't like to do my hair or experiment with make-up, I thought cheerleading was sad, I liked to read at parties, I made a lot of jokes and didn't care if people laughed at me instead of with me. I was a tomboy without being particularly good at sports. I chose to go to New College precisely because there were no sororities and people regularly wore pajamas to class.

So the song spoke to me then. It speaks to me now, I suppose, as I consider how to approach raising my children. I was so lucky, in many ways, to have been raised with very few expectations of who I should be; my parents expected me to treat others with respect and to try my best but otherwise, it was all up to me. So you want to run around shirtless in the front yard? Go for it. Not interested in dolls? No problem. Yeah, sure, go ahead and get that Incredible Hulk lunchbox you're drooling over. Oh, hey, the other girls laughed at you for having an Incredible Hulk lunchbox? So what? Fuck 'em.

And that's what I was taught: to be myself, to do what I wanted, to like what I liked and not bother with what I didn't. And I know that I want this for my children, too--to feel loved and valued no matter what they like or who they become--but I'll be damned if it doesn't get a little complicated when you get right down to it.

For example. Sydney is going through a Princess phase. What the hell do I do with this? Of course I don't discourage it but at what point do you draw the line? The other day we were talking about jobs and why Mommy and Daddy work and I asked Sydney what she might want to do when she grows up and she replied "I want to be a Mommy." Okay, I thought, and what else? But I didn't say it, I didn't say anything, I just gave her a hug and a kiss and told myself to be flattered. But seriously--what would you say? I don't want to give her the message that motherhood isn't enough, isn't valuable, isn't something that one should aspire to--but at the same time it scared me a little. Here's my bright, rambunctuous, doodle-bug catching, hell-raising child, and what she wants more than anything is to be a Mommy? Can I blame Walt Disney for this?

And also. Evan. Is it problematic that my anxiety melted away after the ultrasound showed we were having a boy? That I felt significantly less encumbered by the prospect of raising a male child? Is it right that I continue to eschew gender-stereotypical clothing--anything with trains, soccer balls, footballs, baseballs, airplanes, puppies, camouflage--when he is so clearly male, so physical, so fearless, so consumed with toy cars and loud noises and anything with fur? How am I supposed to reject gender stereotypes when a typical afternoon involves my daughter cuddling her babies on the couch while my son pulls the cat's tail and chases Matchbox cars around the table?

But then: Sydney is Evil Kneivel on a bike and Evan loves kisses and cuddling. My daughter digs for bugs and insects so intently, so persistently, that I've given up on attempting to remove the dirt caked under her fingernails each night. And even at the tender young age of 8 months and 2 days, my son displays a wellspring of empathy and tenderness, tearing up at the sound of his sister's cries, cuddling close when someone seems sad or distracted, bursting into radiant smiles at the sound of laughter. So there's some variation there. I guess my job is to step back and let it all unfold.

But again, to invoke the gardening metaphor: a hallmark of a good gardener is one who knows when to prune for the sake of further growth and when to leave the hell alone. As a parent, it's not sufficient to step away and let the magic unfold; our kids need pruning, careful attention, direction and guidance. And this is where I feel stuck.


* What is up with this show? Half of the women aren't even housewives, for god's sake.